I have a friend who plays guitar
I've worked with thousands ... but none quite like him.
His chord choices, the melodies and the riffs that he plays
They can only come from within.

He's been out living as a big rock star
But that's not quite the world that you'd think.
It's a rugged, rough struggle of perseverance and passion
And your life flashes by in a blink.

He isn't a shredder as are many these days
Never cramming notes where they don't belong.
He is tasteful and creative, a sound so original
His strings envelop the songs.

He has no need to display some arrogant plumage.
He doesn't show off with any thousand-note solos.
He doesn't do intros that are way too long.
His moody style transcends virtuoso.

He is my friend and proven it so
Once guiding me through a valley of black.
Not with his music, although that helped.
He did so with his hand on my back.

A music teacher once told me that
"Music is the silence between notes".
If that is true, then his silence is golden
As I love every song that he's wrote.

So all you pickers, players and shredders
in garages or with gold albums on the wall.
Take a lesson, from this humble man
You needn't over play at all.

But don't think that he is timid or without some flair
Don't make boastful quips that you think are so witty.
If the mood and the moment strikes him just so
He can make that guitar sound like Godzilla destroying a city.

I am so proud to call him my "Brother"
Such a musician, such a friend.
His music and his camaraderie have both touched my soul
and I hope that neither see's end.

Polished nails and faint fingertips
Soothing touch, but quaint red lips
Almond-shaped eyes, hazel iris gleam
Fair skin worthy of the loveliest dream

These words on paper
The very first
Starting the rhyme and verse
With more moments
And stories
All so poetic and stoic
Bleeding ink to fresh paper
Bleeding hearts to woeful ears
Tracing the lines
Of my formative years

Ashy mist skies nestled over
Bleak sleeping mountains
Ghost wood trees likes hands
Reaching from the earth

A girl named Olivia
Sitting in my grade school class
Dark hair woven
Threads of black silk

I never knew her as she grew up
Just an illusory form of a forgotten past
Imagining her as she could be now
I could walk up to her
And say:
      
       “Hello Olivia, It’s been a while
        You changed since being a child
        Your beauty’s been enhanced
        Maybe you’ll give the chance
        To talk and reminisce
        I just can’t resist
        Everything I see and hear
        Has never been so clear
        You make me feel content
        Whole, serene and free
        I just wish this wasn’t a dream.”

All things I wish I could say
To a person I could never forget
Where you simply forgot me
Because I moved away
And you lived your life

Stupid poems of love
Stupid songs of strife
I don’t want these things in here
On here
On these new pages
These quips don’t represent me
The way I want to be recognized
These aren’t the things I want to
Talk about.

Let these crisp pages tell of mutant women
And ******-****** fiends frolicking fiercely
Distorted, cathartic characters collapsing
Rippling, regal rodents ******
And cesspools shaping  
Bubbling, contorting, boiling, simmering
Cow intestines infused with cake batter
Incestuous fairies hopping and dancing to screaming metal
Crunching, chugging riffs and thunder-booming bass lines
Frightening, fulsome, fearsome, ******-up fire starters
Worshiping, boars and their tusks and piling carcasses
Blasting kick-drums and rolls of stomping toms
Orchestra of darkness, Symphony of Hell
Masquerade of puppets and angel witch choirs
Demon women and devil men, swamping
Over bodies and pulling me into the pits
Where the pleasure my body and tear my flesh
Eradicating goodness and lights
With blood, pain, salivating mouths over hardened *****
******* **** and trusting in and out like wild men
In a lake of burning coals  
And sins

I observe these happening(s) in this modern day
So I must write them and you shall read
And in the process
You will be
Shocked, surprised, disgusted, appalled and desired
Your body reacting to these words and phases

    Ever wonder what my voice sounds like?

I do too, at least in your mind

This is my voice.
This is not your own.

Bourgeoisie dinner parties fit for cannibals
White weddings stained with septic blood
Children racing across the burning fields
Chasing the reaper and his friends
rapid heart beats
cold sweating hands
stomach pains churning and squealing
forcible labor to invisible babies
pulling back lips and gums
and retracting teeth
sinking into warm necks
******* and stretching
moans
and beauty through depravity
animistic, egregious
brutal love and subtle kisses
bleeding hearts
and
bleeding pens


This isn’t bad.

I like this

Would Olivia find this mind attractive?
Maybe
Maybe not
It doesn’t matter
These scribbles and dabbles
On these ****** pages
Are the beginnings to something more
All sprouted from the memory
Of a girl.

A smooth jazz blast from the musical past:
The confused ethnomusicology,
The pleasantly discordant riffs and
Jingles of "Hiroshima"—
The band not the bomb site—
Whose fusion sound
Evokes an insane sextet
Granting membership, inexplicably to
Schroeder-- the Peanuts loony tune—
Hitting only the black keys of his piano,
His miniature keyboard
Sour, melodious & pure.

The music's best on the dark
side of town, I heard. It seemed miles
from home, after waiting in a long traffic jam
But the lights finally changed
from glamorous shining to dull neon, covered in smoke
drifting up from drifters outside the Black Cat.

By the fluorescent green sign, a cat
was painted, its fur dark
as the alley I stood in, engulfed in smoke.
The cat perched atop Miles
Davis's trumpet. Bums hassled me for change
and a few drummed on buckets, jamming

with a harmonica player, synched as jam
and peanut butter. I stepped into the Black Cat,
and from the facade saw no change.
The lights turned low, the club dark
as the alley outside. A Miles
record hovered through the smoke.

The people chattered like bees, smoking,
waiting for the players to jam.
At last, the bass player laid down a line miles
long, the drummer chinked in, and the cats
began to groove. They chilled my bones with dark
melodies, pounding through spooky chord changes.

Soon sunbeams shone through the storm, they changed
to an upbeat swing tune. The horn smoked,
hitting riffs unheard, astounding the dark
faces gazing on in awe. They jammed
endless as the ocean. The cats
started to play a popular Miles

song.  The crowd hollered in Miles'
memory as the horn steered through the changes
with the skill of the legend of the Black Cat.
The band, nearly invisible through the haze of smoke
thick in the air, strawberry jam,
soon faded to dark.

Miles Davis’s ghost flowed through the smoke,
awakened by the chord changes, grooving to the jam.
The hippest cat alive or dead, now he plays in the dark.

Standing by the road side
Thumbing a ride
Sleeping Bag, Backpack
And...Guitar on my back
Heat rolls off the Highway
Like Hallucinogenic Waves
Found a Roach in my pocket
Got me through the Day
Nothing but 70s Buick's...
And Cadillac's Roll By
On the on ramp to  I-80
Rolling on to  West Skies
A wish for a fast ride's best
Been up for 36 Hours
Popping Little White Crosses
Nothing Passing by but...
Military bosses.........
A VW Micro-bus pulls up
With a Band of Tie Died, Dead
Heads, cranking Jerry Garcia
The smoke the bowl, Kept on Toking
Greatful Dead played "Keep on Truckin' "
I Rolled off some Riffs, along with the Band
Flyin' 300 miles in that beat up old Van
My head got mellow, with these fine Fellows
They Dropped me off in the cool of the Night
And all I saw of them was their Red Tail Lights...1/27/15

5/20/12

Broken.
Broken hearted. Broken soul.
Broken will. Broken goals.

Never knowing where to start.
Never feeling not apart.
Never knowing where to begin.
Always looking around the bend.

Always thinking "what if?"
Always singing little riffs.
All about what is new.
All about the Mountain Dew.
All about swimming pools.

Never ever being cool.
Never ever failing school.
Never ever a clear mind.
Always knowing how to rhyme.
Always forgetting the good.
Always being misunderstood.

Broken,
like firewood.

guitar riffs move cheap **** as she sits in corners.
shake that hair ever so violently I just might have to warn her
if she does it again, it is off with her head.

Teeth chatter and butts raise above seats,
Riding pickups atop the corduroy road,
Thunder claps of rubber bass beats,
Slapping the undercarriage's rusty odes.

The tires rhythmic riffs are risky,
Clavinet keys echo wood beams over muddy water,
Walter Murphy drinks a Fifth of Beethoven's whiskey,
Leaving superstitions for Stevie to Wander.

Subatomic
Silver smoky sauntering lovelessness
Spots on arms, purple and green
Sickness and sleepless
Wow-like, wicked witchcraft catching

Tones humming zzz'ing
Screaming across elbows
Tucked into the ****
Concrete carnivalesque berserk wildness

Ferally and virily.

U U U THANK U...............Rice Krispie
ANNDD BEATS LEAP CURIOUSLY HIDING
UNDER THE SHEETS

Perfervid fervency.

Idling- white crisps
Blinding silences
Sticky fingertips and lurid looks
Tape after tape of binded irises in the pupil symposium,
Where side-by-side the seams mend together

Innards scissor sideways
Upways downways
Exteriors in rhythmic sync

Tastes like lolli-pop rocks
Watermelon- dazzling gold
Front-step excited eyes binding.
See-cells intertwined and idling-pupils
Dance and discover
Wild hypnotic trysts of skins
Twisting in cotton scenes
Hours of comfortable comforts of living
Women and men handling
Fun funds 'n' bon-bons; investing in the bond.
And going back for seconds.

The head riffs over riptides and causeways, lip-lies and kisses on Broad Way.
Two cadavers, hog-tied. Kissing longways and long ways.
Perogative oxytocin. American Express massages scented oils and lotions.
Persons of interest abetted in sweating. Heaving torsos.
Throwing legs, arms, and sparklers. Redonkulous nectars are microscopic.
Sweet flavors on taste buds or lit by recessed black light optics.
Massaging the rhinoceros husk in this 21st century sarcophagus,
Whiles of Wilders' words were spoken
Nickels of wood soaking in splintered tubs
Thumbs under surveillance. Sneaking inches of suspicion
Leaves treated with lacquer, fables beaten within inches of their lines;

Live its Friday night!
Deviled veterans draped in moon-hide rise
Defiling puerile twenty-something lives.

These wild highs in debts of purs'd thighs
Vexed by personal lies. Hexed in white-out lines.
Riled midnight rides inside this pyre of redolent pie- stroke six and nine
Intertwine in one human form supine
While quaffing nectar wine from the vine
Rancor drives the crime and anoints bold creature types to dine
At the interstice of Sublime.

he guitarist in the city is cool

as he entertained the canberra crowd

with his excellent styles and fabulous riffs, yeah he is pretty cool

you see i gave him $2 cause he entertained us all

and he makes us feel so very cool as we bop our heads and play air guitar loudly

and i can tell you that makes him feel very cool

some look at me as being nice some look at me as being easy

but if people play the guitar as good as him, well, they deserve a few bucks

like i said, it’s entertaining

as he shows us how to party, yeah get down and ****** party, man

yeah mate yeah he is very cool

you see i go to poetry slams to feel cool indeed

and he plays his guitar for us all to hear

get down and party dude, right now

I'm Runnin Jews like Lil Dicky
Run the Jewels, and Ricky
With soso flow of Biggie
Ever since I quit the ciggie
Livin life straight propper
Givin props to Big Poppa
I'm off the spliffs and poppas
Writin riffs for beats that drop ya
Lingerie ladies who have
Curved bodies tight Mercedes
Hot as Hades 420 degrees
Just hot enough to chrisp my cheese
Torchin these trees
Straight from Belieze
Blowin Bolivian keys up they ***
As their friends ends they pass
None of y'all thought this Jew could last
Two days past your last meal
Didn't really know how to feel
Cause I ****** you so raw
Y'all got mistook for veal
That means hyper tender
No allussion to child *** offender
Call me a money stack lender
Back ****** but never a pretender
If I split her in half
God'll have ta mend her
This **** is known to send ya
Into bliss quick
That feeling'll stick
When the tip touch they lower lip
They get oil slick
Just the thought get's 'em hotta than a candle wick
Though you know I don't flow with no trick
Start off slow so we can show each other
Our flame be sure not to smother
Like an over protective mother
Reflect on it while it's lit
Climb inside my mind
See how I visualize thee
Undress and become pantiless
You're sittin on my face
I impress with the pace
I carress your **** with tongue
Spell sinless you'll be a wet well
When you see how well I'm hung (do tell)

… Today I fell in love with flow. As she pulled back the fabric of her luxurious wave encrusted dress, shimmering with an oceanic radiance, she would twirl into whirlpools with breathtaking fluidity. I gazed upon her empyrean heritage, her angelic countenance, bursting with wondrous reefs and soothing currents to spiral me downward into watery depths. She revealed to me dark riffs in her imagination, inciting outbursts from deep sea crevasses. Thundering underwater volcanoes join the tides of war, championing themselves with the discordant cries that surface and pop with a siren’s sorrow. She feels there’s an abyssal drop nobody is willing to venture across, but I’ve seen transcendence manifest in the deeps, and they glow and resonate with her generosity and grace. And as long as kisses are exchanged between shores, I will admire my love beneath the tide.

I didn’t go out last night, like I was supposed to. Sunday during Labor day weekend, and it’s a return to the long grind on Tuesday for my field. So many unknowns will collapse into certainty in one day, which will impact the rest of my year and beyond. So it goes.

I was supposed to go drink at the bar, an old friend is back off the wagon it seems. Yet, my buddy didn’t let me know it was going down until they were already at the bar. I spent most the day at my parents’ in the countryside and just got home. I was already on my second drink alone, and I sensed they were already farther along than me. Do I really want to drive 15 minutes to nurse 3 beers for 3 hours so I can drive back home? My stomach felt upset, so that was the deciding factor for me.

I let down Chuck Palahniuk in that quote where he says writers need to get out into the world, because nothing happens at home. Yet, I felt like I let myself down all summer by not hunkering down and completing all the esoteric music projects I envisioned. I was too tired to mess with my cables, mics, and computers, so I just picked up my acoustic and played. Sweet ethereal major 7th inversion chords and long forgotten riffs. A couple hours went by.  I played the blues riff from “The Last Time” by the Rolling Stones better than I remember. I hit those chords so rhythmically and started to sing. I always thought I did good with **** Jagger’s vocals. I even remembered the second verse. I was right in the middle of it, when I hear my screen door open and some quick slaps on the door. My little dog comes barreling down from upstairs, barking. I look at the clock on the stove. It’s 9:36. I guess some people still need to work on Labor Day. Nevertheless, the city noise ordinance protects me ‘till 10.

I go to my front door and it’s a black abyss, save for a street light showing no one across the street in its feeble glow. I go to my side door, and my driveway and neighbor’s house is equally forlorn. I check the door on the other side of my house, off the bathroom. ****, I left it open to just the screen door. Surely nobody came into my backyard to mess with this door, but maybe it did let too much noise out. Was it the agoraphobic old lady on this side that came to my door? I never even spoke to her before.

Whoever it was, why didn’t they stay to talk to me? I would give you my phone number to make it easier on you if it ever happens again. I checked in the morning again. No note, no nothing. My mind is spinning with unknowns. Was it someone thinking this was the coke dealer’s house next door? Was it kids, checking if my car was unlocked, but then decided on an impromptu prank when they heard my song? Paranoid, I carried my Shillelagh with me the rest of the night.

I caved in, and got quieter. Switched to a tiny guitar tuned in open D, and stopped singing. I still hope they heard me faintly in defiance. I came up with a cool riff and recorded it in my loop pedal. There was a bit of feedback getting it all set up, and I hope they heard that too.



I’m too dense to take hints. Talk to me like a human being, and maybe next time I’ll know it’s you and what you are looking for.

The Back Beat of the Bass, In a Bourban infused bar
Smooth to the bend of , The blues note Guitar
Saxman whail's to the, Smoky Slow blues Singer
And Drummer riffs off , A High Hat Brush Stinger
The Pianoman lays down, A Slow soft tune
As the Vocals Stir the mix, In a soft **** Croon
People dance so close, It Shuts out the World
Lost in Love, Lust, & Bourban.....
Bartender sets up another Round
As the Crowd of the room, Soaks up the Sound.....
Toker's Blowin'  Smoke, Hid in the hall by the Johns
The Bars Mood Sways...As the music Carries on
A Patron at the Bar, Orders up another beer
And the Dancers Float, Across the dance Floor
The Glow of Neon Spills, Colored Red Lights....
A Soft **** Setting, For a Memorable Night
The Guests all begged and, Pleaded for an Encore
So the band fired up... Just one more
All on A Saturday night.....JMF 1/31/15

Last night, I awoke to a sound so sweet
The soft sound of rain hitting the street
But as I drew closer to my front door
What I heard was not a downpour
Men of all walks jammin' out reggae riffs
The rain was not water, it was, in fact spliffs!
Spliffs were lit, people did smile
I thought I'd stay up and jam for a while
Happiness abound and sweet ***** steam
I opened my eyes, it was all a dream

I lay awake in Babylon, tears in my eyes
My brothers from Zion are deaf to my cries
My chalice, my comfort, I pack the kush up
Bring it to my lips and I take a deep puff
I cry, oppressed
My mind, distressed
Babylon got me down

In 2010, I mostly thought about *** on the beach.
Someone falling into me
when waves crash a whip into their back –
I, on mine, my heart filled with the weight of sandbags
packed for a Miami hurricane. When I was that
young, I believed I could show up
at a grown man’s house and hide the evidence in my
****. He would listen to music with a lot of
rhythm, it would influence the way the ocean breathed
and came salt beads on my skin.
The conversation was. The ******* was never –
I went to a smaller beach four hundred miles from his
anxiety and songs without guitar riffs. I
vomited every made up memory,
did not ******* for three weeks because I realized
the gulf could not break my ***** alone.
Broken-hearted. The end. We were so good and
my touch so smooth he thought it was just seashells.

the groogrux king, himself, would sing,
why i am is to forever bring
a jazzed up, blissful outlook on such things
that many see as strife, but man, did he ring
out on that saxophone, bass and alto alike,
he brought forth such emotion
as his wind-riffs did ignite,
the most stellar combination
of love and happiness tonight.

he lives on forever,
as we lie in our graves,
dreaming and wondering of better things,
better ways to use our days,
you gave your soul
through sax in whole,
long live the groogrux king,
we know how sweet you roll.

Press it to your lips, breathe in deep,
let the smoke fill the car with guitar riffs
while you tear down the street.

‘This stuff will give you a lift,’
says John from the driver’s seat.
I pass him the joint and turn the volume up.

Good hard rock pumps our blood with a wild beat
and the heat of summer night keeps us on top
of the world, the six of us, crowded

in a rusted, five-seat pickup,
pushing eighty, with the music loud, and
the backseat flirting getting rough.

We’ll pinch and tease the girls ‘til they
sink, slyly, into our arms
and enrage us with eyes begging for mischief.

So we give them mischief, and pull the car
up to a gas station.  John turns to me to ask if
I’m up to try this place.

‘It’s just right.’
We step to the asphalt in pace
with the radio’s thump, the white

glare of the floodlights hard
against the damp black night
and the shadows of trees.  I start

to review the plan, but I know it alright;
the door jingles lightly as we step inside
to rows of multicolored bags of chips.

Inside it’s cold and quiet.  John coolly strides
to the back for the drinks, and I pick
out a pack of cigs from in front of the counter.

The man is reaching, John is ready, then lightning quick,
we bolt from the store; round the
corner, find the truck; ‘Hey you *******!’

But he’s too late, we’re racing away
and flipping him off.  Our laughter
is loud, the girls are blinking in the spray

of beer popped open.  That’s just after
coming back all smiles, the victors;
flying into the truck, I sat

a girl, Joanne, next to me.  We soaked her,
freed her, ourselves, with foamy suds,
the alcohol, and young nights on the road.

There, signs and shadows rushing past,
we sing to the radio: “I hope I die before I get old!”
and drum on the dash.

Throw the bottles out the window,
who cares what happens!
Spread the glass shards, let the whole world know!

Press it to your lips, drink to the intoxicating purr of the engine.
You laugh, listening to the tinkling
as bottles shatter, one by one, on the pavement.

TheBack Beat of the Bass, In a Bourbon infused bar
Smooth to the bend of , The blues note Guitar
Saxman whail's to the, Smoky Slow blues Singer
And Drummer riffs off , A High Hat Brush Stinger
The Piano Man lays down, A Slow soft tune
As the Vocals Stir the mix, In a Soft **** Croon
People dance so close, It Shuts out the World
Lost in Love, Lust, & Bourban.....
Bartender sets up another Round
As the Crowd of the room, Soaks up the Sound.....
Toker's Blowin'  Smoke, Hid in the hall by the Johns
The Bars Mood Sways...As the music Carries on
A Patron at the Bar, Orders up another beer
And the Dancers Float, Across the Dance Floor
The Glow of Neon Spills, Colored Red Lights....
A Soft **** Setting, For a Memorable Night
The Guests all begged and, Pleaded for an Encore
So the band fired up... Just one more
All on A Saturday night.....JMF 1/31/15

(Drink pouring)
My....my eyes close...
I feel...I feel something close, something I adore most,
Buttermilk soft skin
Lips that taste like sin
Slow kisses...no idea where they've been.
Hold up, *(piano)
Let my notes serenade your brain
Create the melody for your sensation
Watch my slow riffs penetrate your veins
Said "your music's my drug"
As I play this sweet novacane
Extra dosages of my verses for the pain
A hook that leaves the body drained

Stop!

Repetition creates a dullness of ones perception
Changed the notes to help this ****** aggression
Synced it up so well
Baby, we so in tune
Nothing is better than making a love song
Nothing is better than making the perfect song with you.

I should have listened to the words I knew so well
The echo was placed into so many moments in my life
I was ignoring what was right in front of me
Blinded by fear and rose colored glasses
The spinning record showed it's dry sense of humor
Round and round it went
You danced to the riffs, singing each line
I must have been watching it unfold from afar
I never saw it coming

cheated by the opposite of love
held on high from up above
kept my high from the second one
kept my eye on the first one now
take these rings, stow them safe away
I'll wear them on another rainy day

I am bigger than the sound

Rock’n’roll radio died
Between gasoline riffs
I love Texan poker
She smiled with classic liquors
Realise that I want your lips
Gamble success where strangers bleed
Roadside taboo
Lay bare, please,
I want to give you one hot date

My mouth can't help but oblige
              when I'm looking into your heavy
                        steeped, black espresso eyes.

A wicked, soulful grin
      tongue & cheek with ***** words
                 bite my lip & watch you grin.

Press my back up against the wooden door,
                            loosen the lock on my lips
                                     you'll definitely enjoy what I
                                                                   have in store

Run your hand under my waistband
            and touch me like a painted maid
                                                 soulful, melodic
                                                         passion breathes  
                                                           in the tongue riffs
                                                                           you play
                   the symphony of pleasure you produce
       is such a tease

Yet someone else has left lines in your sketchbook,
paint splatters on your notebooks,
memories in your songs hooks.

All the lines of lyrics, memorized
recited to me time after time
darling, open up your
water coloured veins to me
let me patten your psychedelic heart
and watch my paintings bleed.

(... she plays with words)

~

like wind she plays with words,
shaped sand upon the beach;
building castles to the sky,
where tide her walls can't breach.

the combinations countless,
she untangles any stumbling lines;
in tapestry-flowing fountains,
her words to us, our sip of wine.

with nary but her hands she crafts,
poetry 'neath the noonday sun;
ceasing not except to watch,
a seabird as it tends its song.

in subtleties she stirs,
her adjectives like riffs;
nuanced dance in every verb,
a song that rises 'cross the drifts.

words that rivet every reader.
lines that wile a way with rhymes;
stanzas frame a photograph,
her free verse plays along in time.

combers rendered speechless,
marvel her poetic ways;
high as terns can fly she reaches,
as with every term she plays.

her muse in song delights
in ev'ry crashing wave she's heard;
her phrasing light takes winged flight,
like wind she plays with words.

on sands that ripple 'long the shore,
like conductor's arms at final score;
crescendo builds... she stands *****,
then fades to black when sun has set.

~

post script.

today she was my morning muse... a delightfully brilliant poet who knows how to play with words in a most riveting way!  i only just found her beautiful.work.  please allow me to introduce you to Chelsea Rae in these lines:  http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1861530/shine-your-love/

My wife. I call you that already even though
We're only just engaged;

It's no difference
Day One, I already have the most immense love
Moving from me to you
You thru me, unto us two

Like the psychedelic threads and riffs of the Jimi Blues.
Howimmensely I love you.

in the penguins luck the furnace begins
at reprograming the news. Picture frames on 2 x 4s , three
photographs and glass bottles in the most decadent of matrimonies.
Three-hundred million dollars.
And the race riots show 'em who'll take the dampit from the mound of
Soot stained elements, canvas, trash bags, electric guitar riffs, giraffes, bingo, the drip-drop on the drop cloth. Easing into the new processor.

She who settles the wages of crickets with ether and single-barrel vanilla buckshot and maple. Incisors and cynical stereotypecastes and the shadows of the other mugged and loose canonical charades the worser and worsening play their ad keywords at in the sketchmakers many movements her dactyls fine and her fingertips many. Sweet lines of breathing and setting.

Dinner is served!
Forks placed,
Napkins set
The chef has cooked for an army times three
And we’re even using the antique dinette
Runners take your marks
Get ready and set
A hurricanes a coming
Gamblers go and place your bets
My family when reuniting
Is cataclysmic at best
A flood of faces whip and zoom by
I notice cousin it and wolf man starring barbarically at the pies
Dr. Seuss’ children
Thing one and thing two
Take to the flinging of mashed potatoes
Better this than launching poo
Most of us dodge the flying clouds easily
Frankenstein ducks fast and tight
A gravy train curve ball impales my cheek
I stand up slowly and remove my potato face
Everyone backs up to give me some space
The blue haired gremlins snicker in dismay
Glance masks of sheer terror
As I march my wrath their way
“the king is gonna getcha’”
“the king is gonna getcha’”
They sarcastically shiver
But jump from their skin when I boom,
“And it ain’t gonna be pretty, now let me paint the picture”
Go back to your kiddy cribs
Can’t even chew a salted meat
You say you have a green card
But you have no real receipt
They both tremble with fear
So go retreat to kiddy land
Do you need me to hold your hand?
It’s okay you might get lost
This world is a hot mess
So try not to burst your eardrums
Or regurgitate spaghetti
My lyrics’ ll burn your throat raw
Just ask your cousin yeti
Know me by my name I’m the shepherd of fire
Spitting chariots of flame
Nightmares fear my attire
So don’t go and get it twisted ,I’ll break your jaw
You’ll be reduced to spitting lyrics through a crazy straw
Liquid rhyming riffs
You’d be an official pirate, setting out on your sail ships
Slippin’ and slidin
Pass Davey Jones   a mike
And this is what he’ll tell ya
That I’ve been blessed with your curse
This kids gotta serpent’s tongue
Aw you wanna leave already?
What for?
This turkey’s feathers are prematurely burned  
But if my flames are too hot for you to handle
Step back and recover
Your ears are close to charbroiled so seek shelter take cover
I exhale molten bars
From sons and daughters, to mothers and fathers
My blazing campaign and my slogan that’s fire
Me myself and I, Only crew I would hire
So who am I?
I am me!
Who am I?
The mc!
So sit down, hush it up
And call me the pumpkin king!!!

A smooth jazz blast from the musical past:
The confused ethnomusicology,
The pleasantly discordant riffs and
Jingles of "Hiroshima"—
The band not the bomb site—
Whose fusion sound
Evokes an insane sextet
Granting membership, inexplicably to
Schroeder-- the Peanuts loony tune—
Hitting only the black keys of his piano,
His miniature keyboard
Sour, melodious & pure.
I am reading Ayn Rand’s
"Introduction to the Twenty-fifth Anniversary Edition"
Of The Fountainhead, 1993;
An important 20th Century novel, I am told,
A book first copyrighted—
That’s copyrighted spelled without a W—
First copyrighted in 1943,
A copyright renewed in 1971,
By Ayn herself;
An important book--
Whether you’ve bought into her
Man-worshiping atheism—
Or not.
I write these words on the back of a business envelope,
The only paper to be found in this house,
Not ironic, while pondering
A wireless laptop charging,
Plugged in far away on a kitchen countertop.
Lying on a couch in northern New Mexico,
It is an Ides of March 2014 mid-afternoon.
I am 64 years old.
Old enough to know better;
Growing more conservative each day,
With Ayn, I celebrate he who never gives up,
“By spitting in one’s own face,
And damning existence.”
The Fountainhead:
She called the book a “GUIDEPOST,”
A reminder of man’s noble vision,
Proclaiming man in noble glory.
A Sartre you were not, Ayn.
How interesting to think of
The two of you, co-temporaries,
Aspirating the same Earth atmosphere.
This fact itself, an astonishing example of
"Weltanschaung" polarity.
No wonder the world is so ****** up.

Two people walk into a bar:

A woman, early twenties, permed-up, puffed-out hair

Horn-rimmed glasses thicker than coke bottle bottoms

Fresh out the ivory tower eager to learn eager to become who she needs to be

Parlez-vous français? She does,

Her tongue speeding over conjugated verbs

Flying effortlessly through another language, she is ready

To move to Paris, la ville de l’amour,

The City of Lights, the City of Untold Possibilities

She is ready, she thinks,

To fall in love.



A man, earlier twenties, close-cropped, clean-shaven hair

Sea-green eyes and 20/20 vision-placid ocean

Fresh out Basic Training eager to act eager to become who he needs to be

Do you read me, Sir? He does,

His spine rigid from standing straight and tall,

Hand crooked at his forehead in an involuntary salute, he is ready

To build fighter jets with his oil-stained hands

To build a life for himself with his carpenter’s fingers

To build a house on the stability he thrives in

He is ready, he thinks,

To let someone in.



Two people walk into a bar:



A man, an Army graduate, an old soul



A woman, a College graduate, a kind soul



Guitar riffs floating from the jukebox drift through the air,

Playing the background music for newfoundlove story.



Two people walk into a bar:



Friends introduce them to each other,

She thinks, Those green eyes sparkle with the sun freckling his cheeks

Reddening his hair.
She thinks, Maybe he’s the one.

He thinks, That perm really works for her frames her face what a pretty smile.

He thinks, Maybe she’s the one.



Two people walk into a bar:

Sit down, have a drink,

Share some laughs, funny stories,

Break the ice with awkward questions,

Eat some food, too shy to share it

Get some drinks, guzzle liquid courage,

Dance to the jukebox buzz

Look a little silly but pretend they don’t care.

They don’t care.



Two people walk into a bar:


Maybe they leave hand-in-hand,

Maybe they hug goodbye at the door.

Maybe they think about each other and call right away.

Maybe they set up more dates, more bar trips, more laughs.

Maybe they already know that they are in love.

Two people walk into a bar:

Their history writes its own punchline.